Snails obey the holy will of God - slowly

Kenneth Leech, citing a devotional card produced by the Sisters of God, in his new book 'Doing Theology in Altab Ali Park'

The Woman

You don’t know my name; no one thought to write it down, yet you probably think you know my story.  It is there, the story that is, carefully bracketed, lest you might consider it to be essential, with footnotes in the ‘Nearly Infallible Version’ to remind you that “the earliest and most reliable manuscripts and other ancient witnesses do not have” it.  Forgive me my preference for those which note that in the ancient manuscripts my story is found in various locations – within its usual publication and even in another book altogether.  So what do you know about me, woman with no name; story bracketed lest it offend your quest for the infallible?

I wonder how you imagine me?  A seductress, tempting and teasing some gullible man, luring him into the shadows for pleasure?  A young woman, too sex-obsessed to settle down and marry?  A prostitute, selling my body?  Or a lonely, bruised and bewildered woman who wondered just how it had come to this?  Tell me, gentle reader, do you know?  Do you ask?  Do you care?

I wonder how you see the affair?  Were we long-time lovers, our consciences dulled by endless lies and deceit?  Or was this the first time we had shared each other’s bodies?  Were we married?  Divorced?  Widowed?  Single?  Do you wonder?  Does it matter?

What do you know of my life?  Do you know how I felt?  How much I hard searched my soul?  How I had prayed for guidance?  Does my story touch you where you’d rather not be touched?  Does my nakedness expose your own dark secrets?

A Man

Me?  I’m a Pharisee.  I work hard, study hard, pray hard and above all, try to live a decent life.  You, of course, have views about people like me – think we’re all hypocrites. Praying on street corners, inventing petty rules to trip up normal people, picking fault with everything and everyone.  But what do you really know about me?

How do you imagine my life?  A dull, law-bound man with a long beard and no sense of fun?  Someone so heavenly minded he’s no earthly good?  A heartless brute incapable of forgiveness?  Or do you see someone searching for truth, trying to understand, trying to get it right?  Do you ask?  Do you care?

I wonder how you see the Law?  Some ancient set of rules for a bygone age; something to be dispensed with in a new age?  Or something that offers freedom and hope, order and security in a world of confusion and despair? Is it just for religious people?  For the wealthy?  For the learned?  Do you wonder, does it matter?

What do you know of my life?  Do you know how I felt?  How much I had searched my soul?  How I had prayed for guidance?  Does my story touch you where you’d rather not be touched?  Does my quest for truth expose your own judgemental legalism?

An Itinerant Storyteller

My story you think you know well, you retell the stories I told and layer them thickly with tradition.  You fear corruption, the taint of something which just might not have been exactly what I said, what I did, and you consign to parentheses a story of grace, a story in which no-one was condemned and everyone healed.

What do you know about her, the woman caught ‘in the act?’  Sure, you wonder about her lover, why he wasn’t there to be executed too, but what do you really know?  Do you not see that she is you?  Too quickly you deny any hint of sexual sin – who said it had to be sex?  Look at her: terrified; all her secrets exposed for the world to see.  Tell me you don’t dread your own secrets being laid bare… you cannot, for deep within you know that ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’

And him, that religious official you so readily despise.  Can’t you see how he too is you?  Oh, you long to deny it, offer all the right words, but deep within you know that you, also, fear the taint of those whose sins are visible whilst your own are safely hidden behind your eyes.  Tell me that it’s easy, this path of faith, that you never struggle in your quest for truth… you cannot, for deep within you know your fear tears you apart.

On the one hand, they are right, those men, the choices this woman has made demand a response, and the law makes it clear: she must die.  On the other hand, they are wrong, they assume that they are in a position to pass judgement and carry out the execution.  

Do you ever wonder why they came to me?  Not just what the dear old gospel writers say about trickery, but deep down, in their heart of hearts?  Do you ever wonder if, just maybe, one of them was unsure, wanted a second opinion?  If, just maybe, some of them felt uneasy about this?  Do you ever wonder what it was that stopped them throwing the stones?  My words?  Or something else?

Hear then the words of grace: your sins are forgiven…

Woman, no one condemns you, put this behind you and move on.

Man, no one condemns your either, put down your stone and walk away

Here, in the parentheses, in the uncertainly placed text of an ancient writer is glimpse of grace and a hope of glory.

You don't know what happened next, of course, no one thought to write it down: you have to imagine how these people's lives were affected.

You will probably only understand this if you have read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy stories but I am beginning to wonder if I am the incarnate patron saint of decrepit buildings...  (I could not be their goddess as that would be an even bigger theological hurdle!).

When I lived in Manchester the roof collapsed in part, and my neighbours and I were plagued with mice, mildew and many other pestilences.

When I moved to Dibley the church building failed its gas, electrical and just about everything else inspections - wet rot, dry rot, rising damp, penetrating damp you name it, it had it

Today the people came to treat the woodworm in the manse roof - and the ceiling fell in...

I rest my case, St Catherine de Crepit (aka Catriona of Dibley) must be patron saint of, well, kn*ered buildings!!

I am just home from the EMB ministers' conference tired but content, refreshed, enthused, humbled, inspired - it has been a good event, worth the work of printing name badges, handling questions, chasing extra towels for moaning ministers and being left to clear and lock up when everyone else had gone.

When I began to work on the closing worship about a month ago, the theme 'beauty and brokenness' came to me along with some ideas about using pots to reflect the preacher's key texts from 2 Corinthians 4:7 - treasure in clay pots.

As the various sessions passed, with input from Juliet Kilpin (Urban Expression) Peter Hobson (St Philip's centre for interfaith studies, Leicester) and Richard Kidd (Northern Baptist College), some of the themes that seemed to emerge over and over again were about vulnerability, risk-taking, honesty, our own frailty, sinfulness and struggle, our own brokenness - and the God who through all this muddle makes beauty.  Wow!

I enjoyed leading the closing worship, enjoyed arranging the chapel to try to help others engage in something that embodied and incarnated some of what we'd shared as we returned our focus to God, and sought sustenance for our own days ahead.

Not everyone will have enjoyed or appreciated what was offered, some were probably troubled by my clay pots, my friend's dramatisation of Jeremiah at the potter's house, the interactive intercessions with pieces of broken pottery built into a mosaic cross, coming forward for communion or the odd word change to the hymns to make them more inclusive.  But then worship isn't about pleasing people, but about encountering God whose beauty is revealed in the clumsy and hesitant offerings of God's people.

I can't 'do art' as Richard does, but I can delight in his delight; I would not be able to minister as Juliet does, but I am humbled by her humility and tentative theology; I may never pray with people of other faiths as Peter does, but I am embraced by his inclusivity.  I am but one clay pot, chipped, cracked and often broken - but, and here is the real mystery, every now and then the beauty of God can be glimpsed in my relationships, my ministry, my life!

I found this picture on a Google Images search with the phrase 'beauty in brokeness.'  It is stolen from another blogger who in turn pinched it from an African blog.

A simple clay pot is decorated with a mosaic of broken pottery, different sizes, shapes and colours.  The end reuslt is something simply beautiful - and beautiful in its simplicity.

It is for me a powerful symbol of God's Kingdom where all our fractured, distorted, muddled lives are transformed as together they make a thing of beauty.  The Johannine feeding of the five thousand with its note that the fractured pieces were collected up 'that nothing be wasted' find new meaning as the broken bits of pot are gathered into an expression of the fragile, indestrcutible, gentle, powerful, comforting, dangerous beauty of God.

Good conference?  Daft question!

That's a nice theologically erudite sounding title for some waffle on my recent sermon series!

In a few lines of text, the gospel writers give us a story that represents several months or years in the lives of the (fictitious) characters and told by Jesus to crowds whose response is unknown.  As I have worked with these stories, read what the clever Biblical scholars have said and hopefully allowed God a look in too, the 'time' factor in all of them has really struck me. 

In each story there is a chronos element - usually a long one - between planting and harvest (or lack thereof).  This seems to speak to me, and to us, about the fact that there are no quick answers, that everything does take time (perhaps even has a natural lifespan?).  To churches who look for 'results' from their programmes and/or ministers is a reminder that it won't be instant - indeed the fig tree suggests that we could expect three years of nothing before any fruit is borne (discuss!).  In 2006 when instant everything is allegedly the norm, it is good to be reminded of the need for long slogs, not recorded in dispatches with no outward "results" before we reach a harvest.

In each story there is a kairos element - a seasonal aspect when 'this is the moment' that the outcome happens.  Harvest or bonfire - it seems to recur through several of the stories but with the wheat and weeds is also the mystery of unknowingness.  Only at the kairos can we be sure what the 'harvest' will be.  Too much energy devoted to weeding out what we perceive as bad and we grub up the good too.  How much time and effort do we put into doctrinal purity and the 'right living' of others when God actually says 'leave it with me'?

I have enjoyed - is that the right word?  - revisiting these parables and have been both challenged and encouraged by them.  The creative tension (apologies to my URC minister-in-training sister who hates that phrase with a vengeance) between the chronos and kairos aspects intrigues me and also grounds my thoughts back into the reality of Dibley.

In our discussions with D+1, I find myself slipping into a judging mentality about what is essential and what is "froth" in an almost 'wheat/weeds' distinction.  Perhaps I/we need to allow the 'weeds' to stay in the garden while we tend the 'wheat'?  Perhaps while there is a distinction to be drawn between important/unimportant I/we need to beware value judgements on other grounds? 

There seems to be an interesting tension between the sower parable, where the weeds choked the plants, and the wheat and weeds, where they were allowed to remain: are there maybe different types of weeds to consider, or am I stretching the analogies too far?  Answers on a post card to the usual address.

After a free Sunday (hurrah!) and One World Week united service, we will move to a series looking at the four women in Matthew's genealogy of Jesus.  What do you know about Tamar, Rahab, Ruth or Mary? I am looking forward to a very different pre-Advent focus as we discover some of the skeletons in Jesus' family tree!  But maybe it's 'time' for a change?!